Imp Act: The Second Batch
by python862
Summary: The experiment in satire and character death returns with more stupid laws, and even more stupid people to display them! T for aforementioned character death.
1. Chapter 1: Valas

A/N: I know it's been absolutely forever, but I figure now is the best time to try something that's always been a great distraction in the past; my forever-beloved Imp Act laws. So now I begin the second batch for your enjoyment. So, enjoy!

**Imp Act: The Second Batch**

**Chapter One: Valas**

_'Warlocks are disliked for a reason; they cannot be trusted to keep their word. But in this lies the quandary. Bind a warlock to their word, and you bind their power as well.'_ - Anonymous.

Valas had always been a rather happy warlock, one who could easily be found laughing or joking around. He was a good-natured fellow who rarely got into fights – unless you count his fearless and numberless battles with the agents of the Burning Legion – and believed in a healthy drink or two.

While his mother and father had died just a few years after his birth, he had managed to continue his family's legacy with a wife, a son, and a daughter. But even though he was happy with most everyone, the reciprocal could not be said. For all of his friendliness, he was shunned just for his fate as a warlock. He hadn't done anything to them, and if he hadn't been dealt to be a warlock, he would most definitely been well-liked. Even with all of his services to Stormwind, Ironforge, and Darnassus, he was cast aside as a blunder; a screw-up.

He would have died just to have a friend or two to laugh and sing tavern songs with, but no one heeded his pleas. He was alone in an unforgiving world, through no fault of his own. So one day, he had become depressed enough to drink himself far under the table and make a fool of himself. He climbed upon the tavern's bar and bellowed at the top of his lungs his favorite song. The place roared, but not with laughter borne of him, but of contempt of him. How absurd it was, a filthy, disgusting warlock, straddling the bar with a mug of mead in his hand!

Eventually he had been removed from the bar in favor of a bed, but still he sang as he was carried away. The next morning, he hadn't been in the best of shape. His hair stood haggard, his eyes were sunk in, and he moved with the thoughtlessness of a zombie. It seemed he was absolutely gone due to his adventurous raucousness the night prior, dominated by a fearsome headache. Small translucent streaks ran down his cheek, but no one had paid much attention to it – he was still the filthy warlock. Sitting down on a stool at the bar, he removed from his pack a small-yet-ornate knife, covered in runes and priceless stones of all sorts.

A few patrons looked on with morbid curiosity and disgust. They held no trust for a warlock wielding a knife, for any number of things could occur beyond that point. Valas, however, wasn't looking at anything but the knife located in his hands. He inspected it front and back, something he would normally enjoy doing, just to pass the time. Slowly, he raised the hand holding the knife.

"I have a question," he stated, his voice thick with sorrow and contempt. "Why is it that you all hate something like me, when I have not wronged you?"

No one answered him, but he knew quite well the answer. He was in control of demons. Demons that could possibly turn him into a Legion goon at any moment.

At this point, everyone's eyes had drifted to the raised knife in the warlock's hand.

"If that's the way we must do this, then by the Light, it will be done," Valas said coldly.

Fearfully, a man close to the door bolted through it and to what he thought may have been safety from a mad warlock. But instead of turning on the patrons of the tavern, he brought his dagger down, impaling his left hand. On that hand had been an inscribed rune. The very rune that had aligned him with the Twisting Nether.

As the blade made contact with his flesh, the audience gasped with shock while a sickening _squelch_ could be heard. Gingerly lifting the knife from his hand, he inspected the cut. It had severed the rune completely. The pain in his hand, however, had overcome the pain in his head. He felt his mind clear almost completely as the demonic knowledge left him, blind to the Nether evermore.

"Now, will someone drink with me? Rounds are on me."

The rest of the patrons were too shocked to reply. All they could do was stare, mouths open, at the man who had moments ago been a warlock.

"Well?!"

Still silence.

"Fine then. Here's to me!" he called, downing a shot.

Shouts rang from outside as the beginnings of a battle made themselves apparent. Turning a blind eye to the situation, Valas simply continued drinking.

"Are you just going to sit there, _warlock_?" spat one patron as he worriedly looked outside to see Horde overrunning the town.

"I'm no longer a warlock. I can be of no service to you."

The man became more resolute. "I don't care if you're Illidan himself. Get out there!"

Valas sighed, still reeling slightly from the hangover coupled with the shock and blood loss from his hand. "Fine. If you must see how useless I am, follow."

Valas stood and walked to the door, exiting the tavern. There he watched briefly as the guards valiantly held off the attacking force. Sighing again, he took a casting form and thought of a spell that would normally be devastating. Within seconds, the effect could be seen after a brief look through a cloud of smoke.

Where Valas once stood was a bleating sheep, as docile as anything.

Just before finishing a guard, one of the Horde attacking noticed Valas transformed into a sheep, and after thinking that one of the assisting mages had had a hand in the situation, proceeded to cleave his head clean off.


	2. Chapter 2: Liara

**Imp Act: The Second Batch**

**Chapter Two: Liara**

_'A death knight's life is service, if not to one being, then to another.' -_Anonymous

Liara's life had been relatively simple. Of course, the same couldn't be said after her death and subsequent reanimation. It was only after she came to her senses at Light's Hope Chapel that she had the time - or memory, as shattered as it was - to figure this out. It was a quiet life; she had a husband, two children, and an illustrious military career as a mighty and fierce paladin of the Light. However, as it did time and time again, the Scourge proved mightier than any single hero could hope even dare stand up to.

Her death came in the western portion of the Plaguelands, as ghouls and geists alike swarmed her and her party of travelers. It was an assault that played out as quickly as lightning struck, for as Liara found out that day, as small and fragile as the undead beings looked, they were hardier than nearly anything else she had brought her hammer to bear against. For every ghoul whose head she or her friends took for a trophy, three more came in their place. Simply put, their camp was overrun.

It wasn't long after that she was raised as one of Arthas' thrice-damned personal army of death knights. Trained to be a ruthless killing machine that brought death and destruction wherever she traveled, Liara was unable to break the chain that held her to the rest of her captor's hounds of war. She was forced to take the lives of many an innocent, and though her previous incarnation was loathe to admit, she _loved_ every single moment she spent doing so. So, once Fordring had rid her of her blind following to the entity responsible for her death in the first place, she then set days aside simply to try to atone for her actions when they were not hers to make, and to try to remember everything that was hers prior to the turning. And, when that failed, she would do the next best thing. She tracked down those whose lives she ruined through her joyous, ruthless slaughter. Or, as it were, the next of kin to those she killed.

And so, it is there we find Liara, after weeks and weeks of travel, at the door of one such person. Given the nature of her visit, and the nature of the woman herself, the patron of the house was understandably aware of every move she made in his presence. More than that, he was aware of the large blade, scrawling with runes, that hung on her back.

"I am deeply regretful for your loss," she was saying, her voice bearing the duality of the death knight. "And I wish to repay you in any way I can."

The owner of the house was a rather young man; old enough to have a wife, but not quite old enough to take up arms in the military. At the last statement, his face contorted into a sneer.

"Repay. You wish to repay me for what?"

Liara could only sigh at what her next statement would be. This moment was what she prepared herself for after regaining her senses.

"For slaying your father."

"You..?!" was the sputtering reply. Liara simply nodded.

"Light damn you, monster."

"I'm afraid it's already done that," she whispered.

"If you wish to repay me, then you can take your own life, for all I care. It's either that, or get out of my sight before I do you in myself," the young man went on, disregarding what she had just said.

"If that's what it takes for my soul to find respite, then by all means, I'll do it," Liara said, bringing her blade to bear, at the cautious stare of the man. "If it is truly what you wish of me."

The son of a man she killed long ago simply grunted in disgust of the creature standing before him. Within a motion, her runesword was poised to strike. Muttering a silent prayer to the long-lost Light, she brought it down. It held no qualms in tearing straight into her abdomen.

As she lay, the pain seemed to cease. Color drained of the world, save the red that flowed freely from the self-inflicted wound. Above her, the light of the sun brightened, and she was absorbed by its rays. None have seen her since.

* * *

A/N: Well. It seems that the Imp Act shorts are becoming more morbid than humorous, I suppose. Didn't expect that at all. Regardless, this is to tide everyone over 'till we get the first chapter of the new story up and running, as it were. Enjoy.


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